


HOW I MET... At The Theatre

by Sara_The_Scribbler



Series: HOW I MET... [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_The_Scribbler/pseuds/Sara_The_Scribbler
Summary: This is the first in what is likely to become a series of HOW I MET...I often daydream of the moment when and how I meet my ideal man, and what happens next.  In my head I have so many of these stored up and I also frequently wake in the morning from dreams like these.Rather than being specific to a fandom or character there are no names.  I am sure many will recognise who I have based this on but feel free to mentally substitute anyone you want into either role.
Relationships: Actor/OC, Actor/Original Female Character - Relationship, actor/reader, actor/you - Relationship
Series: HOW I MET... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759768
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	HOW I MET... At The Theatre

Have you ever noticed that the fabric seats in trains smell funny? Not clean. Not dirty. Just odd. I am on a reasonably early train into London on a cold and blustery late autumn day, all excited about the show tonight. As I edge further away from home and closer to my destination, I notice the little things. Like my senses are being awakened. The smell of the seat fabric. The drab grey colours outside. The rhythmic sounds of the train wheels on the track. I rummage in my oversized handbag for a snack. Everything tastes better when it can be eaten without distraction and disturbances.

This is one of my weekend escapes from the routine drudgery of life. A decent theatre ticket, a cheap (well, cheap for London) bed and breakfast and a bit of exploring. I gaze out of the window at the drizzle running horizontally as the train speeds forwards. I am beginning to think that there may not be quite so much exploring, and I might just wander round a few big department stores looking at all the fashionable stuff I am too poor to buy and too short to wear. Maybe an art gallery or museum then. I will see what takes my fancy once I have checked in.

I am in no hurry to get off the train when it arrives in London. This weekend is not about rushing around. I grab my little case and step out onto the platform. Every step forward releases a little more of life’s stress. I stroll towards the tube. No direct route to where I need to go so which way today? Across town and onto the Northern Line. I like the Northern Line. Best route in and out of the theatre district even if it is a little more dilapidated than some of the other lines.

As I take my seat on an almost empty Northern Line train it feels like I am easing into myself. The real me. Not the persona that I wear at work, or that smiles cheerily at the neighbours, and definitely not the persona that shoulders the heavy family commitments. For maybe thirty hours or so I can put down that weight. This is where I can just be me. There is something about these trips that almost makes me feel like a teenager again. Except maybe with a little more wisdom. The few people around me are mostly staring at their phones. Some with headphones on. One lady is reading a book. Just a couple more stops. As I sit back comfortably in my seat, I look up at the names along the line, Chalk Farm, Belsize Park, Hampstead. What I wouldn’t give to live within walking distance of one of these stations. To be able to pop into town (meaning London’s theatre district and main shopping areas) any evening or weekend, instead of just the once every six to eight weeks that I currently manage.

As I walk out of the tube station, I pull my hood up to protect from the drizzle. It’s not raining heavily but 10 minutes in this and I would still be soaked. A brisk walk is what is required. I set off at pace, dragging my little case behind me. It’s a path I have walked more than a few times before. As I walk the rain lets up and within a couple of minutes, I can take my hood down and ease up my pace. I love all these big Victorian and Edwardian villas. Mostly split into flats now but still maintaining the grandeur of the architecture in the mature tree lined streets.

Once checked in, I sit on the bed and check the forecast. It’s looking quite clear for the next couple of hours, so I think a nice walk around Hampstead and onto the Heath is the plan for the day, particularly as the weather tomorrow looks awful. The museums can wait until tomorrow. I sort out my clothes for the evening and lay them out on the bed. Then I use the app on my phone to book a table for one for dinner near the theatre. I am used to eating alone. It doesn’t bother me at all, but it would be nice to have someone to enjoy a conversation over dinner with. Maybe one day. With the evening sorted I grab my coat and head out. There is a lovely little café in Hampstead I can get a nice bowl of soup for lunch before I go for my walk so, I head in that direction.

As I walk towards the Heath there are not many people about. All the fair-weather park goers have stayed at home and at this time of year there aren’t so many tourists. There is the occasional person walking a dog which sets my mind to daydreaming. Sometimes I imagine seeing him walking his dog. I know he lives in this area. The paparazzi have taken pictures of him. I wish they would leave him alone. Being a famous actor doesn’t give people the right to pry into his private life. I wouldn’t want to interrupt his private time, but I like to imagine him walking past and just giving me a smile. My imagination takes me through a hundred and one scenarios for how and why he might say hello. Each one more farfetched than the next. I should have brought my notebook and written some of these ideas down. They could make a good opening for a romantic comedy or drama.

Further along the path, as I head into the trees, I pull out my phone and open the camera. I like taking pictures of the trees and at this time of year, with most of the leaves having fallen, there is an expanse of sky and fast-moving clouds above the naked trees which makes more interesting pictures. There is this one tree that is looking spectacularly dramatic today, but I just don’t seem to be able to get the angle right. I take a step back, and another, and then I trip over a root and fall backwards, landing hard in the soft mud and leaves. However, the ground wasn’t all soft, there are knobbly tree roots. Ouch! That’s going to leave a mark. I am so glad I have a complete change of clothes including a different coat for the theatre as it’s going to take a while to get this mud off. It’s even in the back of my hair. Time to call it a day and to head back to my room to get ready. I am starting to feel excited now. I am really looking forward to the show.

All showered and dressed, I head back towards the tube a little after five. I need to go via the theatre to collect my ticket. Dress Circle, D2. A very reasonably priced ticket and a decent view. D1 and D2 were the only two tickets available when I booked so I didn’t really have much choice. I wonder if D1 has also been sold. This show has been sold out most Saturday’s so I am thinking it will be. Maybe I should ask at the box office when I get there. No. Why do I need to? This is just my anxiety worrying about who I will be sat next to. I will have people all around me. I will probably speak to the people in the seats next to me, even if it is only to say excuse me as I squeeze past to get to my seat. It’s just I know that the view is limited from D1 so that person may lean towards me to see better. I really don’t like space invaders. The people who actually use the armrest between the seats even though that means almost resting their arm on yours. It’s a long show too. Nearly three hours with an interval. Oh well, usual routine then. One drink with dinner and one from the theatre bar to just relax me a little and help me cope with all the people.

When I think back to two years ago, when my anxiety was so awful I could barely leave the house, I am still amazed that I can do these theatre trips but it’s the trips that helped to finally get the anxiety under control, so, whether there is a show I really want to see or not, I still keep going to the theatre. Last time I came I saw three shows in one weekend! That was mad. But I really wanted to see them all. This weekend, there wasn’t any show in particular that I was desperate to see but this one was getting great reviews, so it seemed worth seeing. I have heard of a couple of the main actors so I would do my usual and get a programme and try to get their autographs after the show. Not because I particularly want the autographs as such, just that it gives a few moments opportunity to say hello and thank the actors for their great work. It’s they best feeling in the world to see them happy and smiling when you give your thanks. Occasionally there is a selfie or even a hug, but they are all icing on the cake that is the show itself. Seeing a show that I haven’t seen before is all an education. Filling in the gaps in my terrible literary education at school.

As I sip the last of my wine in the restaurant I glance out of the window at the weather. Not raining. Good. I am only a few doors down from the theatre but who wants to get soaked at the beginning of an evening out? The doors should open in about ten minutes so time to pay the bill so I can be ready to make a move soon after seven.

A glass of bubbly in one hand and programme in the other, I walk from the foyer into the dress circle. There is no one in this part of row D yet so I make my way along to D2. I carefully balance the programme on the edge of the tilted seat, and my drink on the floor next to my bag while I attempt to carefully roll up my coat and stuff it in my handbag. While I am bent forward over my bag, I hear a man’s voice behind me.

“Excuse me, please. I believe I am in the seat to the other side of you.”

I nearly fall into my bag. I recognise the voice. No. It must just be my overactive imagination and the wine talking. I need to just breathe and stand up before this man wonders what the hell I am doing.

“Sorry” I say automatically as I stand, grabbing my overstuffed bag, my drink, and the programme, and backing myself up to my seat so he can get past. Oh my God. I was not imagining it. It’s him. The actor I have been fangirling over for the last two years. And yes, he is really tall up close. You can’t get much closer than having him squeeze past you in an ancient theatre. Just breathe. Don’t stare. Don’t avoid him. Oh my God. I can feel my face flushing and I am losing control of the stuff I am holding.

“Let me help” he says kindly, taking the drink I was about to spill on him out of my hand, and the programme. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable.”

I swallow hard, trying to remember to breathe, and sit. He hands me my drink and programme and takes his own seat. My anxiety is whirling out of control and is telling me to get up and leave. I had every intention of taking a polite sip of my drink and smiling at him but what I actually did was downed it in one, put the glass on the floor and tucked the programme in the top of my bag while trying desperately to compose myself. Another deep breath and I sit up.

“Are you ok?” he asks quietly.

“Yes. No. Sorry. Anxiety. Just struggling to compose myself. You surprised me.” And this is where the initial stunned silence is replaced with incoherent babbling. If I hadn’t had a drink or two, I might be able to compose myself, but it wasn’t happening. “I’m a really big fan. I’ve seen all of your films. I came to see you in this theatre last year and in New York in the autumn. I’ve never been to New York before. I absolutely loved the show. I saw the play twelve times in total. Eight in London and four in New York. I am really looking forward to seeing you on stage again. But I didn’t expect to see you here, well, I mean, in the theatre, in this theatre, in the seats, sat next to me.”

I would probably have gone on babbling for the full twenty-five minutes until the curtain was due to go up, but he reached forward and took my right hand in between his hands and held it. I stopped in my tracks. I still can’t look him in the eyes, but I am now looking at his hands instead of the floor.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks softly.

I try to focus on slowing my breathing down. I am sure he can feel my hand shaking. As if he can read my thoughts, he gently squeezes my hand.

“That helps” I whisper. I didn’t think I said it loud enough to be heard outside of my own head, but he hears me and gently squeezes my hand again.

We sit quietly for a few moments, maybe even a few minutes. He still doesn’t let go of my hand. I am beginning to feel a little less out of control and focusing on my breathing, I realise I am actually listening to him breathing slowing and following him. I lift my head and for the first time I look at him. He’s looking at me. Watching me.

“Oh, I’m so sorry” he says “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just I have never seen anyone actively calm themselves from an anxiety attack just by focusing and breathing. Can I ask how you did that?”

“Did? Still doing. I can’t really explain now. I need to focus on something else and not talk about my anxiety right now. Can we talk about something else?”

He looks apologetic and asks, “Of course, what would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know. I really can’t think straight at the moment. Can you tell me about this play? Anything really. Why did you choose to come tonight?”

He smiles and then goes on to talk solidly for the next ten minutes about the play and the author, and the cast and director, while still holding my little hand between his two huge hands.

“I’m so sorry” he says, apologising again, “I’ve just been rambling on and on.”

“That’s fine, exactly what I needed, something outside of myself to focus on.” I am feeling much calmer now and his soft voice, combined with his passion for the play, has really helped me much more than I expected.

“I didn’t answer your question though.”

I can’t even remember the question I asked. “That’s ok.”

“I was stood up.”

“You were stood up!” I probably sound more shocked than I should have. He laughs.

“I was supposed to have a call from the states but they cancelled at the last minute and as I had no other plans and I wanted to see this play I called the box office to see if any tickets were available. This was the only seat. It seems that it was meant to be.”

I place my left hand on top of his hands which were still holding my right hand. “Thank you. This really helped.”

“Then I won’t let go” he whispers as the lights dim for the beginning of the performance. He straightens himself up in his seat but as promised, he continues to hold onto my right hand with his left.

As the actors move to the right-hand side of the stage, I can see he is missing some of the action. Feeling a moment of uncharacteristic bravery, I gently pull on his hand to encourage him to lean towards me to get a better view. He leans over the armrest between us and rests his left arm gently on my right. I rest our hands on my right knee.

This feels nice. For a moment I forget that the hand I am holding belongs to an A-List actor. This almost feels like a date. Well how I would imagine a date should be anyway as I haven’t been on a date for so long that I honestly can’t remember. With my left hand I reach over and wrap my fingers around his left bicep that is resting against mine, and I feel a warmth flow through my body. That is one powerful arm attached to this gentlest of men. In this instant, I really don’t want the interval to come. That would break the spell and end this magical moment. I really want this to last forever because I cannot imagine life being any better than this right now.

But the interval arrives, and the lights come up. He moves himself to sit up straighter, so I let go of his arm and at that point my heart sinks as I expect him to let go of my hand. But he doesn’t.

He gently squeezes my hand. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, “Let’s go to the lounge”

“My ticket doesn’t get me into the lounge” I begin to say.

He frowns briefly then smiles at me, “I’m sure it will be fine. Come on. Let’s go,” he says, standing, and encouraging me to do so as well.

I’ve just realised that while I was having my little meltdown earlier the rest of row D and the Dress Circle had all filled up and most of them have now seen and recognised this wonderful man holding my hand and are probably all looking at me wondering who the hell I am. A little bit of that anxiety jumps back up my throat. Part of me wants to pull my hand away and go hide in the toilets.

“Excuse us,” he says over the top of my head to the lady in D3. She stands, as does the man next to her and with a little nudge in my back I start to move, grabbing my bag as I do. I mutter apologies to the rest of the row as I squeeze past. He still has my hand, and this means his arm is now awkwardly wrapped around my back as we make our way out of the Dress Circle, but he still doesn’t let go of my hand.

We arrive at the lounge and the member of staff on the door recognises him. “Good evening, sir, we weren’t expecting you tonight, were we?”

“No, it was a last-minute thing” he says, as he gently ushers me through the door. “Now what would you like to drink? Was that champagne you were drinking earlier?”

“Prosecco” I reply.

He grins. Why do I have a feeling he’s planning something? I have seen that grin before. If he were one of his characters, I would be expecting some mischievous plan.

“Bottle of champagne and two glasses, please.” he says to the bartender

At this point my brain is confused. He appears to be behaving like we are on a date. But I am just some weird woman who had an anxiety attack at the sight of him. I could understand him being kind and helpful. That’s just how he is. But holding my hand in public. Buying me champagne. Nope. My brain just can’t handle that reality so I must be dreaming.

“Will you be ok for five minutes? I promise I will come straight back.” He still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Yes, of course I will be fine.” He squeezes my hand.

“Don’t drink it all without me” He winks and then he lets go of my hand. My hand suddenly feels naked and cold. I watch as he walks away. Not towards the door we came in, but another door.

Right now, brain - don’t overthink this. He’s probably just gone for a pee. He said five minutes. Don’t look at your watch. But what if the bell goes? Do I go back to my seat? Do I take the champagne and both glasses? What if he’s decided to leave? Leaving via the back door to get away from the weird woman. I bet he didn’t expect this much drama off the stage. Maybe I should just go now. No. Because what if he comes back and I’m not here. That would be so rude. I should probably go to the loo. Do I wait for him to come back first? What if there isn’t enough time? Thanks brain – what did I say? Don’t overthink this. Breathe woman, you are getting yourself all worked up again. Look around the room. Have a sip of champagne. Distract yourself. He said five minutes. That’s not that long. I look longingly at my right hand, desperately missing the feeling of it being enclosed in his. Missing the warmth and safety his hand provided.

That voice again behind me “Not drinking the champagne?” breaks my run-away train of thoughts. I almost jump out of my skin.

“Oh sorry, that was so thoughtless of me, sneaking up behind you. Are you ok?” he says as he walks around in front of me and hugs me. And now I can’t breathe. Not because he is squeezing too tight. Just the smell of him is intoxicating and his jumper is so soft. My legs feel weak.

“Do you need anything? Do you need the ladies’ room? It’s just through that door there.” He says pointed to the door he went through a few minutes before.

“Yes, I probably should” I say, trying to catch my breath. Legs don’t fail me now. I walk towards the door feeling like the whole world is watching.

One genuinely nice ladies’ room. I’m impressed. No queue at all. I sat in the cubicle for a moment while I try to gather my thoughts but the main one in my head is that I must not keep him waiting. I take a moment to check my hair and face although I can’t really do anything to improve matters. There seems to be a smile on my face which doesn’t look familiar to me. I take a deep breath. That will have to do. Then I head back to the bar.

He’s still there. At the bar where I left him. But now with a crowd of people around him. I stay at a safe distance hoping he will see me. The interval bell goes, and he instantly looks around and sees me. He smiles at the crowd around him. “It’s time we all returned to our seats,” he says in a loud clear directive voice. He grabs the bottle and both glasses and nods his head in the direction of the door. So, I head for the door and back to our seats. Oh. Our seats. I’m thinking our seats. Not my seat and his seat. I have this weird fluttery feeling. Like feeling sick and excited at the same time. Like a happier and more in control version of my anxiety. He has made it to the door before me. It must be those long legs. I get to follow him up the stairs to the Dress Circle and that is a fine view. I can feel that warmth rising in my body again. I need to keep my imagination under control too.

As we reach the door to the Dress Circle, he turns to me and whispers, “I have a surprise for you later.” Then he continues to our seats (yes – our seats) and as we sit the lights dim. He reaches across and places a filled glass in my left hand, then he takes hold of my right hand again, resting our hands on my knee as he leans over the armrest, so our arms are touching. This can’t be him still trying to help with my anxiety. This is more than that – isn’t it? Am I just reading too much into this?

I try to focus on the show. Luckily, it’s really good so that doesn’t take too much effort because otherwise I would be seriously distracted by the man holding my hand. I sip the champagne and put the glass down once it’s empty.

As the show ends, he releases my hand to join in with the enthusiastic applause from the audience. After the cast take their bows, and I swear they look in his direction at one point, I go to make a move to leave.

“Wait here a while.” he says, “Refill?”

“I was hoping to go to the stage door to get my programme signed. I like to thank the actors personally.”

He smiles. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

I can’t really tell him at this point that I actually my anxiety means that don’t trust anyone but given the choice of being with him or potentially standing in the rain for half an hour waiting for the actors, there is only one sensible choice. I stay.

“Of course.” I hold up my glass for a refill.

The theatre is almost empty before he suggests that we move. “Let’s go back to the lounge.”

At this point my heart is thumping so hard in my chest I am surprised he can’t hear it.

“It’s ok, it’s nothing terrible.” He smiles and swapping his glass into the same hand as the bottle, he takes my hand again. Maybe he could hear my heart pounding. Maybe I was screwing up my face like I do when I think too much.

We enter the lounge to find the majority of the cast who greet him loudly. I feel invisible.

He puts the bottle and glass on the bar, then circulates the room saying hello and thank you for coming to everyone. I just hang back at the bar, standing roughly where we stood during the interval. I’m feeling completely out of place and I have the urge to either leave or hide in the posh toilets I found earlier. But before I can think anymore, there he is stood next to me.

“Come on then! Grab your programme and your phone. Let’s get you those autographs and some selfies. I’ll introduce you.” He pauses and looks at me quizzically. Then pours a little more champagne in both glasses. “But first a little toast, to the luckiest last seat in the house.” I drink to his toast, but I am a bit confused by it. I am the lucky one here, but his was the last seat in the house, so is he saying that I am lucky he got the last seat? Well, I would have to agree with that, but I just have a feeling that this wasn’t what he meant. No time to think about it now though as he took me around the room and introduced me to the cast and chatted with them. 

He glanced at his watch. “Thank you all so much for your time, but I can’t hold you up anymore. There is probably a crowd at the stage door waiting for you.”

As they all say their goodbyes and file out of the second door I just stand there.

“Are you ok?” he asks, for what feels like the hundredth time this evening.

“Just a little overwhelmed. Thank you so much for everything.”

“We don’t need to rush off. Let’s sit for a while and finish the champagne” he gently ushers me to the nearest seat then pours the remaining champagne, sits in the chair next to me and offers me my glass.

I have run out of words. The whole evening has been one huge emotional rollercoaster, but it now feels like it’s time to get off the ride.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks

“Yes, thank you.” He looks at me, a little worried. I know that was a bit of an empty answer. The show was great. But I just can’t think straight at the moment.

“How are you getting home?”

“I usually get the tube, but I think tonight I need to walk home”

He looks concerned. “I can’t let you walk home on your own. Let me get you a taxi. Where do you need to get to?”

I give him the address of the bed and breakfast. I feel I owe him an explanation as I know it’s in the same neighbourhood as his home and I don’t want to seem like I am encroaching on his private space. “It’s a few streets away from the flat where my Mum lived in her twenties which is also where she lived when she met my Dad. I stay there most of the time when I visit London”

He looks pensive for a moment. “That’s quite a long walk” he looks down at my shoes as if assessing their suitability for the distance. Then he laughs. I look down too. He shuffles his chair and swings his legs round, putting his feet toe to toe with mine. We have matching boots. Not identical, I give you that, but definitely matching. He laughs a big whole body laugh and it’s contagious, so I start laughing too. Maybe it’s all the champagne. Maybe it’s all the emotions of the evening but now that I’m laughing, I can’t stop. As we finally get the laughter under control, he moves a little closer, his feet under my chair as he squeezes my calves between his. He leans forward and takes both my hands.

“Would you let me walk you home? It will probably take about 45 minutes”

“More like an hour with my little legs, remember I am a foot shorter than you and most of that difference is your legs!” This definitely feels like date territory. If this were a date, I would probably feel nervous at this point. It this was anyone else but him I would probably feel nervous. But for some reason, and maybe it is the champagne, but I think it’s just because it’s him, I don’t feel nervous. This just feels right.

“Yes, I would like that.”

He smiles. One of those smiles from the deepest part of the soul, like joy overflowing. I could feel myself smiling back.

I can feel my whole-body melting. How am I supposed to even stand after being assaulted by that smile? I look at the remaining half a glass of champagne. I can’t drink it. I’ve probably already had too much. I pour the rest of my glass into his.

“One glass too many?” There’s that grin again. “That’s ok, you can hold onto me.” He finishes the champagne in one go, then takes the glasses back to the bar.

I extract my coat and scarf from my bag and as I am trying to get my second arm in, he is there again helping me. He’s already picked up my bag and is now offering me his arm to hold. I am dreaming. This is the only explanation. I fell asleep in my little guest house bedroom and never made it to the theatre. This is all one of my super realistic dreams. But that can’t be true. Because when I dream, I always wake up before the best stuff happens. I check my watch for the first time all evening. It’s gone eleven. The last four hours have been the most amazing and emotional four hours. I mean this tops the whole of last year put together and that was a fantastical year. I realise that I’ve just been standing there in a world of my own. He’s been standing their watching me. Still offering me his arm. He seems to find my vacantness amusing. No that’s not the right word, maybe interesting. He looks curious. Like he wants to know what is going on in my head. Well that’s the last thing I am going to tell him. Deep breath, half a step forward and I take his arm.

“Shall we go?” he says.

I nod.

“Are you ok if we take the back streets?” he asks as we leave the theatre.

“Yes, of course.” I know I said I didn’t trust anyone, but I seem to be trusting him. If any other strange man I had only met four hours ago offered to walk me home through the back streets of London I would have run a mile. But there is something about him that is so easy to trust. Possibly because I already believed that he was the only genuinely nice person on the planet. Possibly because I felt drunk. The cold fresh air made that abundantly clear. He had obviously shortened his stride so my little legs could keep up as we were walking at a comfortable pace for me. He seemed happy to walk in silence for a while and that suited me too. I really didn’t think I could say anything worth saying in my half-drunk over emotional state anyway.

After a while, as we crossed over Tottenham Court Road, I pointed over towards the right. “My little brother went to University there. I used to visit him fairly often while he was a student and after he graduated as he stayed in London.” This was the beginning of a conversation that continued until we reached my guest house. We covered our attachment to London, education, work (mostly mine as I already knew all about his), then the conversation somehow ended up on past relationships and how long we had both been on our own. It felt like such an easy and natural conversation. No secrets. No need for secrets. No judgement or analysis. We even talked about children. This wasn’t first date material. We were moving way past that and into the realms of a long-term relationship and it wasn’t even midnight yet.

Ah, yes midnight. Is that where my Cinderella story would end? Would he walk me to the door then politely say how nice it was to meet me and goodbye? I didn’t want the evening to end. I brought my right hand up to rest on my left hand that was holding onto his arm and I squeezed his arm a little tighter. Was it wishful thinking or had his pace slowed? The conversation had turned to the future. My next visit to London would probably be around Christmas time. His work would take him back to the states again soon. Why did it feel like the conversation was heading towards working out how we could see each other again? I mean, that wouldn’t be realistic. He could have any woman he wanted. Anywhere in the world. Why on earth would he want to see me again?

“So how long are you staying this weekend?” he asks.

“I go home tomorrow”

There’s a silence. Like a big black hole sucking me in.

We are at the guest house. The front door is up seven large steps. I stand on the bottom one and for the first time since we were sitting in the theatre the height difference is manageable. 

I turn to look at him. The fresh air and the long conversation have cleared my head. In front of me is man. Not a mega star or a Hollywood actor. A man. An insanely good looking, intelligent, charming, sexy man who is completely out of my league but nevertheless there he is, standing in front of me.

He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tightly. I wrap my arms around him and press my head into his neck and shoulder, slowly drinking in his scent. His skin is warm against my face.

“I don’t want tonight to end” he whispers. I look him in the eyes for the first time and I feel like I am going to drown in the intensity. He leans in and gently kisses me. Fireworks! Oh, my heavens, my legs have turned to jelly. I return his kiss and it’s like the flood gates have opened. I want him. I can’t possibly invite him in. I am in the smallest room in the house and it has a single bed. He’s a giant. Not to mention the massive fear of rejection if I were to make such a bold suggestion. More kisses. He is kissing my neck and my face and my lips again with a passion I barely remember ever existing. I lean back a little so I can focus on his face.

“Not in public please” I ask.

He nods. He appears to be hesitating. 

“Is there something you want to say? To ask me? Go ahead.” I gently enquire.

“I don’t want to seem like I am rushing you. I know I can be a little intense and I don’t want to scare you away.” He seems worried and insecure. This is the most private part of him I am seeing. His vulnerability.

I take a breath. “I am an all or nothing kind of person. I don’t do slow, or sensible. I jump in with both feet and hope for the best. At least I do when the anxiety isn’t holding me back.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last bit about the anxiety.

He seems to think for a moment. “Would it be too forward if I asked you to come back to my house?”

We still have our arms around each other, and I can feel his arms tense. I can also feel my words failing me. This is the critical moment where I usually say the wrong thing. The opposite of what I really want. I squeeze him and find his mouth with mine, hoping that my kiss is a clear enough answer. He returns my kiss with enough passion to set fire to the whole street. I am not sure how I am still standing.

“Can I just grab a few things while we are here?” I ask. He passes me my bag. I quickly find the key. There are a thousand thoughts screaming through my head, most of them along the lines of ‘why would he possibly be interested in you?’ But there is one much louder voice screaming at me which is the united voice of body and soul telling me this is what I want and need, and my antagonistic anxious mind can just shut up. In my room I shove my basic toiletries from the bathroom and half a change of clothes into my handbag. Two t-shirts to choose from. Not the best options. A ‘Future Mrs …’ shirt and one from one of his films. It has to be the film one. Luckily, it’s cold enough weather that it will disappear under my jumper anyway. Oh, and my nightdress. Short satin floaty thing. I’m glad a picked this one for the trip and not the big fluffy pjs. Time to hurry back down. I don’t want to keep him waiting. I still really can’t believe what is happening. Anxious brain is flooding my head with all the what ifs. What if he’s gone, realised his mistake and just left? This is the easiest what if my anxious brain kept throwing at me as I walked quietly back down the stairs to the door of the guest house. What if I go and it all goes horribly wrong? What if he thinks I am fat or ugly? I step through the door and close it gently behind me. He’s not there. For a moment I feel like collapsing in a heap. The anxiety is overwhelming. Then I see him. Across the street in the shadows away from the streetlights outside the little park area. He’s seen me and is hurrying over.

“I was worried you had changed your mind and wouldn’t come out.” He says.

He takes my bag in one hand and my hand in the other.

My heart is doing somersaults. He waited for me. He does want me.

He takes a deep breath and speaks something he has obviously been worrying about “At this time of night hopefully there won’t be any photographers outside. There is a back way in too but one or two of the photographers have worked that out too. I went out the back way tonight so unless anyone tweeted a picture of me out and about tonight then we should be ok. I want to protect you from these guys. Most of them are not decent people.” He sighs. This is obviously an ongoing issue.

“Are they there all the time?”

“Not anymore. There was a time when they were there all day and night for weeks. I couldn’t go anywhere without them following me. I still never open the blinds at the front of the house.”

In what felt like just a few minutes we were at his door. There was no hesitation. He had the key in the lock, both of us inside and the door closed again in seconds. No human being should have to live like this. Once inside he seemed to relax.

He picked me up and put me on the bottom step of his stairs and kissed me. I still had my anxious voice in the background, poking me with self-deprecating thoughts. One of them escaped my lips. “Why me?” I ask. “Hundreds of thousands of younger, more beautiful women than me. Why the weird woman who had an anxiety attack because you said excuse me?”

He looked straight at me. He stroked my hair away from my face and smiled. “I could name a hundred reasons but the first one would be your strength. Your inner strength to cope with your anxiety and still go out and live. I couldn’t let go of your hand, not because you needed me, but I think because I needed you.”

That was hard to listen too. Insults and put downs are so much easier. They validate my own thoughts. This strength that he is talking about. I didn’t feel strong. I felt out of control and weak. I know, in the sensible objective part of my brain that he is right. The strength it takes just to get through a normal day is more than most people need to summon up to deal with a years’ worth of minor traumas. I have to bite back the words of denial and self-deprecation that are rising inside me.

He seems to sense my inner struggle and holds me in a tight embrace for a moment before kissing me. At first gently but as I response his kisses become deeper and more passionate. I can feel my body trembling.

“Can I ask something? It’s not really important. It’s silly really.” I can feel that anxious voice poking at my brain again.

“Ask me anything.”

“Is this…, is this just for tonight, or is this the beginning of something?”

“That’s not a silly question.” He squeezes me and with his lips brushing my ear, like he is afraid to say the words out loud, “I very much hope that this is the beginning of something.”

It what I longed to hear. My hopefulness has been fed and the anxious voices suppressed. It feels like my heart is going to explode. I don’t remember ever feeling this happy. I kiss him and as our faces press together, I can feel a dampness on his cheek. Is he crying? Or am I? The emotions are overflowing. I cannot imagine anything better than being here, in his arms.

“Make love to me” I whisper.

He takes a step back, quickly locks the door then in one fluid movement, he grabs my bag and sweeps me up in his arms. As he carries me up the stairs two at a time, he replies with that grin that I had seen several times earlier in the evening, “I intend to.”

[and the rest I leave to your imagination]

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work posted on AO3 so please let me know your thoughts.
> 
> Also if you have any suggestions for HOW I MET... locations or story ideas let me know. (I can't promise anything as I take months to get around to writing and then it all seems to come in one long stream of conciousness)


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